


Who Will Seek Me at Nightfall?

by Writer_Girl123



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, F/M, I mean I haven't written everything but if there is violence it won't be too graphic, I'm not planning on any major character deaths but we'll have to see where the story goes, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, Slow Burn, Updates will probably be very varied (apologies in advance), World War II, like really slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 04:28:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14845707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writer_Girl123/pseuds/Writer_Girl123
Summary: 1941. War-torn Europe. Deep in the heart of France, a group of revolutionary students break every rule and overstep every line to try and win their country back from the Nazis. With every sacrifice, victory and defeat, they must rely on one another even more – and for some, what starts out as desperate trust turns into something more.





	1. The Refugee

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! Thank you so much for clicking on my fic – I’m really looking forward to sharing it with you all! Okay, first things first:  
> \- The name of the fic is a quote from the wonderful and talented writer, Vera Brittain. It comes from her poem _The Superfluous Woman_ , if any of you were wondering. I absolutely adore her poetry and thought this line from her poem suited the atmosphere I’m trying to create in this fic!  
> \- I’m using a bit of creative licence in this fic to add an element of angst to the plot (mwahaha!). I know that Feuilly isn’t actually Polish but for the purposes of the fic (and the historical elements) he is going to be Polish in this au.  
> \- Lastly, if there are any mistakes or historical inaccuracies, they are entirely my own. Also, I (obviously) do not own Les Misérables. It will always belong to our great overlord, Victor Hugo. 
> 
> And without further ado, enjoy the fic, my fellow E/É lovers!

From the moment the door opened, Marius could tell two things: Enjolras was furious and terrified. He regarded Marius with a concoction of these emotions, more commonly known as annoyance.

“Well?” He finally enquired, his eyebrows nearly touching the waves of his fringe. “Are you just going to stand there collecting raindrops on your shoulders or what? I’m rather busy,” he said, tossing his words at his friend’s feet.

Marius straightened his jacket, shaking sprinkles of rain off his shoulders, and fixed his eyes on Enjolras. He could see a storm brewing in his eyes. Not wanting to get on the bad side of Enjolras (especially not when he was clearly vexed), Marius added a note of seriousness to his facial expression, hoping it was convincing enough.

“What is it, Enjolras?”

The young revolutionary’s dauntless mask melted away, now matching his taut posture and said, “Marius, you have to help me.” He put a hand on Marius’ shoulder and guided him into the cottage. His eyes swept over the street before he squeezed the door back into its frame.

Marius shrugged off his jacket and hooked it on the stand slouching next to the door. Enjolras was already striding in the direction of the kitchen, not delaying any explanation, as usual. To Marius’ surprise and confusion, a red-eyed, hunched-over Feuilly was propped up on a chair at the kitchen table with a cup of something half-warm wrapped between his hands.

Instinctively, Marius crossed the room and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder blade. He looked over to see Enjolras leaning over the opposite side of the circular table, his head hung. Probably sensing Marius’ puzzled stare, Enjolras raised his head, hair cascading into his face. Exasperatedly batting it away, he fixed Marius with a shaky eye before uttering the most dangerous words imaginable:

“They’re coming for him.”

Then Marius understood. He could feel his spirit sinking into his shoes. He looked at Feuilly who had his head in his hands, his friend’s tears steadily pooling on the kitchen table. “They” could only mean one thing. The Nazis. Marius’ thoughts were consumed by his bitterness towards them. Les Amis had agreed that they were like predators, preying on Europe only to present the spoils to their leader: Hitler.

Marius had forgotten that the Germans were hunting Poles. And here, shivering underneath Marius’ hand, a Polish student sat, weeping like a child that had lost a parent. He had lost far more than that. He had lost his country, his family, and his pride.

Marius knew that his next words would make or break the validity of his support for Feuilly in the coming months. Bracing himself by taking a deep breath, Marius used his exhale to say, “Well, they can’t catch you if they can’t find you. And if our childhood holds any accountability, you’re bloody brilliant at hide and seek.”

***

A couple hours later, the real reason why Marius had come started taking shape: the biweekly meeting of Les Amis.

Marius had shown up sooner to discuss the developments of the supreme French Resistance group, La Résistance, with Enjolras. Now that the meeting had commenced, Marius tried to deliver their message as briefly and thoroughly as he could to the four other people sitting around the kitchen table: Enjolras (a frown carved between his eyebrows), Combeferre (chewing on the end of his pencil), Feuilly (a mug of ration coffee delicately wrapped between his hands), and Jehan (mindlessly doodling on the paper in front of him with a blunt pencil). Even in the dimly lit kitchen, Marius could see that their eyes were serious and their faces were hard: France was on the line and none of these people dared risk losing it again.

“They don’t want us to go looking for trouble. At least, we mustn’t draw attention to ourselves. The only way to successfully pull off a blow to the Germans is by involving the masses. And the masses aren’t ready,” Marius said, trying to make his point as clear as possible without coming across as defeatist.

“What brought this on?” Combeferre asked.

“Couple weeks ago, fifteen September, two resistance fighters – no idea who, they didn’t say – attacked German soldiers here, in Paris. They were punished, obviously. La Résistance don’t know their sentence, though. But they’re sure, and I rather agree with them, that the Germans will use those fighters as an example. A case in point of some sort. And when they do, La Résistance wants us to distribute flyers at the university. As many as we can, as quickly as we can so that we can –”

“Involve the masses,” Enjolras concluded, nodding thoughtfully. His hands flew over the paper in front of him, making notes in that indistinguishable handwriting of his. He paused, scratched his eyebrow with the back of his pencil and continued scrawling on the page. Finally, the frantic rasping of pencil on paper stopped and Enjolras looked up at Marius. “Did they say anything about how we’re supposed to print these flyers?”

Marius nodded eagerly, relieved that Enjolras was asking questions that prompted his memory. “They’ve offered to lend us a press from a man who used to own a telephone book factory. Two weeks, I believe, was their time constraint. We just have to get our own ink and paper. I have enough saved up to cover half the flyers they want us to print.” Marius paused to take a gulp of coffee. The warm, energising liquid was all that could calm his frayed nerves. “However,” Marius continued, wiping a trickle of coffee off his chin with his sleeve, “they said if this one is successful, they’ll probably ask us to do it again and then they’ll lend the press to us on a permanent basis and subsidise the costs of the ink and paper for us.”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows in a surprised, yet grateful manner and the gesture was echoed across the table.

“Well,” said Jehan, crumpling up a piece of paper that contained a caricature of Hitler with a large upper lip sporting his signature moustache and tossing it over his shoulder into the withering fire, “it’s not a deal we’d get just anywhere, so I say we take it.”

“Plus,” piped up Feuilly, “if we can get into La Résistance’s good books, they’ll let us help when they arm themselves.”

“Who thought you’d be the violent one?” Combeferre teased, giving him a knock on the back. “That’s our marble friend over there’s job.” He pointed to Enjolras, who was scribbling away with his unruly hand, oblivious to his friend’s comment on his fighting spirit. “But I think they’ll want to keep that type of resistance to a minimum for now.”

“But we all know that, whatever La Résistance says now, actual conflict will be unavoidable,” Jehan said, his face falling at the reminder that fighting might be necessary.

“Regrettably so,” Combeferre nodded, rubbing his eyes and taking a gulp of coffee.

“Well, I suppose it’s not too different from actual conscription,” Jehan said. “That’s the one thing the Germans did that actually doesn’t make me want to write an elegy for them.”

All the heads around the table bobbed, except for Enjolras’ who was still lost in thought scribbling his notes.

“I mean, if it weren’t for the enlistment being voluntary, this one here would be in trouble,” Marius said, giving Feuilly a sympathetic pat on the back.

Feuilly raised his eyebrows and nodded his head. “Well, yeah. The Germans are meticulous,” he accentuated each syllable and made slicing gestures with his hands to show exactly how meticulous they were. “I mean they’ll be pretty thorough with who they let on the battlefield. Don’t want any rogues like us on there, eh?”

A few chuckles reverberated around the table, lightening the damp mood by a fraction.

“But, just to come back to the point,” Combeferre said, eyeing Enjolras’s note-making which was becoming slower, “they don’t want us to take part in any armed resistance for the foreseeable future?”

Marius shook his head. “They didn’t say anything about armed resistance now. We need the masses before we can do proper damage to Vichy France. They just want us to lie low for a while.”

“Won’t be for long,” Enjolras muttered under his breath, finally finishing up his notes.

Combeferre frowned. “But it makes sense for us to lie low. Gain support from the masses. We all saw we can’t do much without them except lose more people who are willing to fight for the cause.”

Shaking his head, Enjolras looked up at the meagre assembly in front of him. “We must lie low. But there’s a good reason for it. La Résistance is about challenging Vichy France, right?” Four heads hesitantly nodded. “And they’ve got an army. An armed infantry. The masses are people with little or no experience in combat. But we’ve got something they don’t have. Something to fight for. If Vichy France dominates us, the Nazis also indirectly dominate them. They don’t actually have anything to protect. Not their power nor their dignity.”

“But they do have the artillery to blow us to bits,” Feuilly put in, an epiphany slowly dawning on his face.

“Gee, you’re a cheerful one tonight, aren’t you?” Jehan mumbled.

Feuilly ignored him, his voice picking up speed as he realised what needed to be done. “The people don’t have any ammunition. I don’t know what sort of weapons La Résistance might have, but they’ll be severely outnumbered. The only way we can get weapons is by stealing them from Vichy France themselves.”

As the depth of Feuilly’s conclusion sunk in around the table, Combeferre started collecting everyone’s coffee mugs and took them to the basin to wash. Amidst the running tap water, Jehan spoke: “La Résistance don’t need soldiers. They need criminals.”

“ _Kamikaze_ ones at that,” Marius murmured, his head in his hands.

Enjolras stood up, his stance demanding attention. His hair waved in all directions, his hands were in the air in gesture, and the deepening frown lines on his brow were hard to miss. But the passion in his eyes made him look collected, calm even. “France is our country. We cannot lose her. Not for anything. That means we become anything that she needs to heal her wounds, be it forger, thief or rebel. If you won’t do that, get out of here, because I only deal with patriots.” A thunderstorm was rumbling in Enjolras’ eyes as they slid over the faces around the table. They all remained still as statues.

Combeferre stepped closer from the basin and put his hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “Don’t worry, we’re with you, chief.”

Marius exhaled sharply and patted Feuilly on the shoulder. “Now that we’ve got that behind us, what’s happening to our refugee over here?”

“We’re going to hide his ugly face so the poor Germans don’t have to see it,” Jehan said teasingly.

Feuilly chuckled wryly and said, “I won’t eat much and I can forge ration cards and coupons with all the extra time.”

Combeferre turned around from drying off the last of the mugs. “Potential fugitives of ours shouldn’t lie to us, Feuilly. You’ve never been one to skive off meals.”

A laugh rippled through the room and to everyone’s surprise, Enjolras was next to speak. “Feuilly, you’re staying here whether you like it or not, because Combeferre and I are the only ones with a basement, so that’s that. Plus, I can give you manual work to do while we do the fieldwork. So, yes, I’ll be taking you up on your offer to forge coupons. God knows we need those by the rate the Germans are stealing our food.”

Combeferre flopped into his chair again, the tea towel slung over his shoulder, and nudged a stack of paper towards Feuilly. “And you can go ahead and start on those coupons right now. I’m starving.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’ve read all the way down here, thank you so much! I thought I’d just fill you guys in a little on the historical side of things to hopefully make the events I’m mentioning make a bit more sense. In July 1940, the Nazis infiltrated France and established what they called “Vichy France”, a regime that lasted until August/September 1944. Vichy France basically meant that half of France belonged to the Germans, while the other half was under (compromised) French sovereignty. Long story short, some people were not happy about that and formed resistance groups, the umbrella one being La Résistance. I am going to be mentioning a few real-life French resistance members, but I’ll tell you more about them when they are actually being discussed in that chapter. If you guys want to know any more, I got most of my information from [here](https://www.britannica.com/event/Vichy-France) and [here](https://ww2db.com/battle_spec.php?battle_id=153).


	2. The Messenger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again, everyone! Thank you so much for already leaving me kudos! When I got the emails to tell me about them, I literally jumped for joy! It baffles me to know that people out there are actually reading my work and that some actually like it – it means the world to me. Hope you guys like this chapter xx

Enjolras’ mind had two gears: France and everything else. Since half his mind was devoted to his country, he had a limited memory when it came to anything else. That was why when he opened the door on a drizzly Thursday, he had no idea who the girl standing in front of him was. He was almost sure that she was somehow connected to Marius, but he couldn’t quite place her in his mind.

He regarded her blankly as she wiped away some dewy rain that had collected on her forehead.

Éponine was not a shy person. But she thought she was. And that made all the difference. Throughout her childhood, she had been peppered with continuous false reminders of her inferiority which left both observable and invisible scars. Some of them were still open wounds and could only be forgotten when they no longer bled. So it was not unusual that when Enjolras spoke to her in his customary communication style (quick words hurled towards its recipient like battle axes), she flinched.

“Yes, can I help you, mademoiselle?” he spat, the words landing at her feet amidst the glinting raindrops. Anyone who knew him would recognise the signs of his moodiness, but his assertiveness frightened Éponine. Although, she must admit that afterward, a word stuck in her mind that nobody else had ever used in the context of her before: mademoiselle _._ It was that one word that anchored her respect for him somewhere deep inside of her and she would be sure to return the favour one day.

“Er, are you monsieur Enjolras?” she asked, fumbling for her words and a letter that Marius had given her to deliver to monsieur Enjolras who, in his words, was “the fair-haired bloke with more thunder in his eyes than all the skies combined,” which was pretty much the most accurate description of the young revolutionary. He nodded curtly and her fingers handed the folded message to him along with a whispered explanation: “Monsieur Marius said it was urgent. He wants you to send your reply back with me.”

Enjolras gave another curt nod and let his eyes climb over the creased words. He was about halfway through when he realised that Éponine was still standing in the rain. “Forgive me, mademoiselle,” he apologised, gently putting his hand on her shoulder and guiding her into the cottage. “There’s a towel in the bathroom. Just through there. Go ahead and dry yourself while I write my answer” he said, vaguely gesturing in the direction of said room and sauntered to his messy desk in search of a pen.

He was so engrossed in the letter that he didn’t see Éponine’s smile as she disappeared down the hall. Her smile – a hungry grin that etched dimples in her cheeks – was displayed so little that even she was surprised to see it gracing her face when she glanced at herself in the bathroom mirror. It was twice now that this man, who Marius had only ever talked of in contempt, had treated her with a sort of courtesy that she had seldom received in her life. Not even Marius had ever been so successful in cheering her up such a great deal in such a short space of time. Not that she’d admit it; she couldn’t bear anything remotely threatening her glorified version of Marius.

She slunk back down the hall, past a handful of rooms, all with open doors except for one. She furrowed her brow but resolved not to question it; it probably just led to the basement. When she came back out, Enjolras handed her a letter, an umbrella and an instruction.

“Please give this to Marius in his hands; no other messenger but you,” Enjolras said, creasing his reply in half and handing it to a nodding Éponine, her eyes serious and solid. “And take this, please,” he added, passing her an umbrella of which the original red hue had faded to a mottled, dusky pink.

“Oh no, monsieur,” Éponine protested. “I couldn’t. Who knows when I shall be able to return it?”

Nonetheless, he stuffed the umbrella into her fist. “Don’t want to get ill with the winter coming on, mademoiselle,” he said. “Give it to Marius and tell him to bring it and his next message himself,” he instructed her. “It’s not like Marius to be so unchivalrous towards a lady,” he noted, rolling his eyes at his friend’s impertinence. “Unless…” he furrowed his brow and twisted his mouth, as though in disgust. “Well, I wouldn’t put it past him,” Enjolras murmured to himself. “He better not be stupid. Oh, hang on, I’m talking about Pontmercy here, _of course_ he’s being bloody stupid. Oh, God.”

Shaking his head, Enjolras closed the door to the cottage behind Éponine who was trying to figure out how to open the umbrella. Lips pursed together, she finally managed to slide the canopy into place. Her hair was still damp from her previous trip through the rain, but thanks to Enjolras’ offer to use the bathroom towel to dry herself and the use of his old umbrella, she didn’t feel neglected.

Holding the umbrella high and tucking the folded letter into her pocket, Éponine tried her best to skirt the pools of rain that drenched the Parisian streets. Not many people were out, but considering the weather that wasn’t a surprise. Éponine preferred the lack of distractions anyway: it gave her time to think as she made her way to the flat Marius shared with his friend, Courfeyrac.

First she had to figure out what Enjolras had meant when he said he wouldn’t put it past Marius. Wouldn’t put _what_ past him? Did it have something to do with Marius’ complete oblivion to the world? If she was honest, the fact that he had managed to form coherent sentences in his letter was a feat. Distraction had made his eyes swim as though he was dreaming. What was going on with him?

Shaking her head to clear her mind of the answerless questions that plagued her, Éponine started thinking about things she did know the solution to. What she needed to think about now was a plan to execute her solution. Firstly, she needed to get Gavroche and Azelma away from where they were living. Both she and Azelma were working ridiculous shifts at the factory and they were merely tolerating the fact that most of the ammunition they were making was being shot from German guns. And she could hardly bear the thought of Gavroche, who had been forced to grow up so quickly, leaving them behind to fight for their country that belonged to the Germans.

Over the past few weeks, between Gavroche pickpocketing anyone with a tailored suit or dress and her and Azelma scraping together every last franc they could (even stealing food to avoid using coupons for it) Éponine had seen it was becoming more and more possible for them to flee the country. They could find refuge in Switzerland or England if they were lucky. Many Jews scarpered to America on boats and Éponine liked to think that they wouldn’t mind three more skinny siblings if it came to it.

All too soon, Éponine had reached Marius and Courfeyrac’s apartment block but no conclusions. She skipped up the steps to the front door, eager to be in Marius’ company, even if it was only for a little while. After pressing the bell to announce her presence, she politely grazed her shoes on the welcome mat so as not to trample the building with her wet feet. A minute passed and no one answered.

Éponine furrowed her brow. When Marius had given her the letter, he had told her that Courfeyrac would be at classes all morning, so his flatmate’s absence made sense. Admittedly, she was thankful that she didn’t have to worry about running into Courfeyrac, seeing as she had never met him before. But Marius had said that he ought to be home within the hour, after dashing off to run an errant himself.

Shaking her head, Éponine pressed the bell again, assuming Marius just hadn’t heard the previous time. But another minute came and went and still no one came to let her into the building.

Sighing at her friend’s lack of a sense of time, Éponine decided to wait for Marius. After all, Enjolras had instructed her to give his letter to Marius in his hands. She wasn’t about to disappoint him after he’d been so kind to her. Bundling up as close as she could to the door, Éponine slid onto the welcome mat and positioned the umbrella to deflect as much rain as possible.

With even more time on her hands, Éponine’s train of thoughts returned to the factory where she spent endless hours every day trying not to die of boredom or explosives. She felt angry again when she thought of all the weapons she was making for the German soldiers. What were they called again? Something that sounded almost like “nasty”. Wasn’t there a way she could be certain that the weapons she and Azelma made fell into French hands? And not just any Frenchmen. Definitely not those who supported Vichy France. Where were the people who, like her, wanted nothing more than to see their beloved country free again? She wanted to help them thrash the government in any way she possibly could.

“Éponine?”

Her eyes jerked up to see Marius, soaked from the crown of his head down to his shoes. His eyes were still a little dazed like earlier that morning, but at least it looked as though he was would be able to comprehend the message she had been sent to deliver. Éponine scrambled to her feet and hastily tried to pat her hair into place whilst digging the letter out of her pocket. She could feel a blush rising to her cheeks as Marius looked at her, his faced slightly tugged in confusion as he tried to deduce what she could possibly doing on the apartment block’s doorstep in the rain.

Still trying to keep the umbrella steady, Éponine handed the letter to Marius along with an explanation: “Monsieur Enjolras said to deliver this in your hands. It sounded serious.”

Marius nodded and quickly unlocked the door, waving Éponine inside as his eyes breezed over the letter. “More of this, Enjolras?” he muttered as he trudged up the stairs to his flat with Éponine in his wake. “Oh, honestly, I can come to a meeting if I want. But if you keep throwing all my ideas back at me, you’d best have better ones to replace them.”

Éponine raised an eyebrow at the mention of a meeting. More questions that needed answers rose into her thoughts. Who _was_ Enjolras? And what connection did he have to Marius? Were they friends? Colleagues? What meeting did Marius have to attend? And, more importantly, why? What ideas did they have?

When they reached the flat, Marius handed the keys to Éponine, still absorbed in Enjolras’ letter and muttering snide comments. Éponine deftly clicked the door open and walked into the flat, Marius sauntering in behind her and finally glancing up from the letter only to search for a piece of paper on which to write a reply.

Éponine stood to one side, picking at loose threads on her slacks while she waited for Marius to finish writing his letter. Her head was still spinning with endless questions. When at last he sighed loudly and folded the letter, Éponine shyly raised one of the questions she desperately wanted the answer to. “Marius,” she said cautiously, his eyes jumping to hers when she said his name, making her heart flutter. “What are you and Enjolras doing?”

His face looked sad for some reason, but a moment later, seriousness covered his features and he stood up, putting both his hands on Éponine’s shoulders. At his touch Éponine felt herself melt, but she tried to keep her facial expression neutral as he answered her question. At least in part.

“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but I’m in enough trouble with Enjolras as it is and the truth is you could help us, I think,” he said, his words hurried. “We’re working with La Résistance.”

Éponine gasped and put a hand to her mouth. “Are you serious?” _Marius was doing something that fell under the category of rule-breaking?_

He nodded, pursing his lips. When he spoke again, Éponine could feel her eyes growing to the size of saucers. “Enjolras says I have to help them plan. Something to do with spreading the word about an attack. Long story short, we need a lot of people on board. They want us to lead an attack on the Germans.”

“And you want me to help?” Éponine asked, her voice shaking from astonishment that Marius would entrust something like this to her.

“Well, truth be told, we need anyone who’s willing to help. But first you’d have to meet Enjolras and Les Amis properly,” he said, releasing his hold on Éponine’s shoulders and reaching for Enjolras’ letter that was lying on the table. His eyes skimmed the letter once more before he looked back at her. “And there’s a meeting tonight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we have some interaction! This is going to be a slow burn journey though, so bear with me. I hope you guys are enjoying the story so far - I love writing it and as I'm going to be on holiday shortly, I might have more updates, so keep your eyes peeled!


	3. The Meeting Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to give some creds to my lovely friends Annis and Kat for being the best betas I could ever ask for! I really appreciate you guys xx
> 
> Hope you guys like this next chapter!

Éponine stared down at the paper on which Marius had scribbled the address of the meeting place. Frowning, she held it up to the street sign. They matched. Éponine let out a breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding in. _Thank God Azelma can read a map,_ she thought, making a mental note to repay her sister for helping her. She shuffled down the street, eyes darting about to find the number that matched the one on the paper. Finally, after scurrying up and down the street several times, Éponine found the place. It wasn’t particularly fancy, but if you’re used to roofless homes with walls that hardly manage to support themselves, most places rank as luxurious.

By now, the sky had cleared but Paris was still dripping. Éponine had Enjolras’s umbrella tucked in the crook of her elbow. She had a cautious spring in her step as she made her way up the path that led to the meeting place. It was small, cottage-like, but it missed the quaintness Éponine associated with that word. It looked half-forgotten but for the yellow glow that spilled from the windows into the untamed garden. Éponine took a moment to take in the place. Who had Marius said it belonged to again?

Taking a deep breath, Éponine hopped her way up the steps and tapped lightly on the front door. Suddenly, she could feel her heart picking up its pace. A million thoughts flew through her mind. What if it wasn’t Marius who opened the door? What if he didn’t tell them she was coming? What if they thought she was a spy? What if? What if… _What if?_

Éponine shook her head and started backing away from the door. Her foot was on the first step when the door opened. She could hear muffled voices coming from somewhere in the house. The faint thud of a tray being placed on a table. The familiar smell of coffee, even though she hadn’t caught a whiff of it in years. She could feel her head turning around. By now, her heart had started making its way to her throat. But the person who stood in the door was about as threatening as a fluffy bunny.

The first thing Éponine noted was that behind all his stubble, his puzzled face looked too young to belong to a revolutionary. The second thing was that none of his clothes seemed to fit together, no matter which way one looked at it from.

He looked a little silly as he grasped for words. “Er…” he managed to get out. “Mademoiselle, are we expecting you?” He threw a glance over his shoulder as though he wanted to ask the rest of the people what he should do, but they were in another room so, reluctantly, he turned his head back to Éponine.

A half-smile cautiously spread over Éponine’s face as she answered him. “Marius invited me.”

The fellow’s eyebrows travelled up his forehead. “Oh, I didn’t know he invited someone.” He glimpsed over his shoulder again. “Er,” he said, looking back at Éponine. Seeing her gaunt frame and large eyes made him shake some manners into himself. “Forgive me, mademoiselle,” he extended his hand towards her. “I am Jehan.”

Gratefully, Éponine clasped his hand and shook. “Nice to meet you, Jehan. I’m Éponine.”

There was a smile on Jehan’s face, but it was accompanied by a slight furrow in his brows. “Éponine…” he murmured, letting go of her hand and running his fingers through his hair. “I don’t recall Marius mentioning you before. But you’re welcome to join us if Enjolras agrees,” he said brightly and held the door open for her.

“Thank you, monsieur,” Éponine smiled, stepping over the threshold and hanging her threadbare jacket and Enjolras’s umbrella on the stand by the door. Despite Jehan’s hospitality, a phrase of what he had said stuck in her mind: _I don’t recall Marius mentioning you before._ Those words felt like needles puncturing her stomach prick by unbearable prick. She _had_ always wondered why Marius had never introduced her to his flatmate. Did she really mean that little to him that he didn’t even care to _mention_ her to his friends? Éponine shook her head, desperately trying getting rid of that thought, but the painful feeling in her stomach didn’t leave for a good while.

Jehan led the way, a smirk tugging at his mouth and a bounciness in his step that Éponine had rarely seen in anyone since the start of the war, especially since Vichy France was established. His nonchalant air since introducing himself had made Éponine’s shoulders drop a little and her teeth weren’t as clenched as they usually were during all those hours spent at the factory.

As they neared the room where Éponine assumed they were meeting, the scent of ration coffee intensified and the murmurs she’d heard at the front door deepened into baritone voices. She hardly had time to get all her thoughts arranged before Jehan opened the door and made a little bow, tipping his head towards the room. _I just hope Marius is there,_ Éponine thought before steeling herself with a deep breath and walking into the room.

She held her head as high as she could, thinking of the advice she had given Azelma many times before when they were forced to pillage the Parisian bins to hunt for their dinner: _Looks matter more to people than they care to admit. If you look the part, people will believe it._

At first, the four students gathered around the table kept their heads bent over whatever they were working on, but then a pale bloke with a shock of ebony hair looked up at her and a grin creased the corners of his eyes. He was the only one who had a bottle sitting in front of him instead of an enamel mug. Éponine immediately recognized Marius even though he was sitting with his back to her and across from him, Enjolras was wildly gesturing as he explained something. He was completely oblivious to the fact that the yawning brunet next to Marius looked as though he was about five seconds away from falling asleep. Éponine scratched behind her ear, looking all over the room but at the students. Jehan stepped into the room, a blush colouring his cheeks. His step a little stiffer than before, he made his way to the table and leaned into the group, causing Enjolras to stop speaking as he looked at his friend.

“Marius, I believe we have a guest?” Jehan said, his raised eyebrows drawing lines on his forehead.

Four pairs of eyes immediately trained on Éponine and she averted their gaze, instead fiddling with a loose thread on her sleeve. “Ah, damn it, I forgot to say I invited her,” she heard Marius say, exasperation colouring his voice.

She glanced up to see Enjolras leaning forward to rest his chin on his clasped hands. Both the sleepy brunet and dark-haired man were looking at her with cautious interest, glancing at Enjolras as though waiting for his verdict. But Enjolras’ face remained emotionless as he surveyed Éponine, only a slight flicker of recognition in his eyes. Éponine shifted in her shoes, rolling the loose thread between her fingers. “Please,” Enjolras said, looking away from her and switching his gaze to Marius, “introduce us to your… friend.”

“Of course.” Marius stood up so quickly, he knocked over a cup of ration coffee, prompting a chorus of groans and snickers from around the table. The likes of _stop depriving us of our only joy_ and _why do we even put up with you?_ were in the mix, always followed by laughter. Marius chuckled along and turned the colour of beetroot. Éponine couldn’t help but feel her heart flutter at his shyness as he buried his face in his hands.

“Ah, sorry,” Marius said, holding up a dripping piece of paper stained an odd shade of brown. “I’ll replace the coffee.”

“I can’t stay awake without it,” the brunet reminded him.

“You can’t stay awake with it either,” Jehan muttered, earning him a withering glance from his heavy-eyed friend.

“However do you plan on replacing it?” the ebony-haired bloke asked Marius, an edge of amusement in his voice.

Marius leaned into the table and lowered his voice to deliver his answer. “That’s my little secret. But if you must know, I plan on getting it in an honest way. Unlike you lot.”

Teasing cheers followed from everyone around the table, except Enjolras whose request had yet to be fulfilled. He kept looking at Éponine with a sort of child-like curiosity. Completely at a loss of what to do, she cleared her throat and stepped farther into the room. Marius obviously wasn’t going to introduce her so she might as well do it herself. “I am Éponine.” Heads turned her way at the sound of an alto voice. Five pairs of eyes staring at her in anticipation made her swallow her tongue for a moment.

That was a moment too long for Enjolras. “Éponine who?” he asked, his eyebrows climbing up the shallow lines on his forehead.

Éponine frowned. That was not a question she thought would have come up. It also wasn’t a question she planned on answering. All of them she had met called her mademoiselle, a courtesy that had never been extended to her before in her life.  What if they lost any respect that they had for her? They were revolutionaries so they would definitely be clued up about the supporters of Vichy, especially those as notorious as her parents. No, she was not going to lose any respect she had managed to receive, just because her parent’s had somehow managed to win German soldiers’ favour by keeping their pub well-stocked with a German brew.

“It doesn’t matter who I am,” she said finally, straightening her posture and looking each of the men around the table in the eye. “What matters is that I want to help you get France back.”

The silence in the room was so thick, it was almost tangible. None of them had ever heard an alto voice say anything along of the lines of stealing back a country. Then the dark-haired man picked his bottle up off the table, took a swig and, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, said, “Well, no offense, boys, but it would be nice to have someone half-way decent to look at whenever we’re planning whatever the hell we plan.”

Éponine scoffed and rounded on him. “Half-way decent looks don’t win revolutions, monsieur.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing sassy Éponine! Get ready for more in the next chapter!


	4. The New Revolutionary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to post! I've been meaning to post it since Friday, but I only came round to editing it today so hope you guys enjoy it! Thanks for all the kudos you guys have left me so far - I really, really appreciate it!!

Ten minutes into the meeting Éponine had already caught the ebony-haired bloke, Grantaire, shamelessly staring at her more than once. She had a sneaking suspicion that the sleepy brunet, Bahorel, would also have done so had his eyes not kept falling shut whenever he did something that cost him the smallest amount of energy. She sat between Marius and Jehan, both of whom were intently listening to Enjolras.

Enjolras sat across from her and was finishing off his input, “… said before, we need the masses. Word doesn’t get around by homing pigeon anymore so use the damn press because God knows what we pay to keep it going. We might as well use it.”

Shaky looks were exchanged by the other men around the table and even Bahorel’s eyes grew a little despite their bleariness. In the corner of her vison, Éponine saw that Enjolras was studying his friends with a keen eye and pursed lips. She could tell that he knew that they had something to tell him and that he was not impressed that they had discussed whatever it was without him.

“Well?” he snapped, a fresh thunder storm brewing in his eyes. “Is anyone going to spit it out?”

“I’ll handle this, boys,” Grantaire said, leaning towards the bottle in front of him and downing the remnants. “So,” he leaned his elbows on the table, “fact is people know who we are. Chances are slim that they know what the hell we’re actually doing, but they know us. I mean, it’s not as if we’re handing out flyers to them in person like ‘hey, do you hate Hitler? You’ll love us! We’re kicking his–”

“But the fact remains,” Jehan cut in, “that we can’t be associated with this. People know us and you know they love turning people in.”

“So this has nothing to do with the actual printing of the flyers but about the distribution?” Enjolras asked, reaching for his coffee for the first time that night.

Four heads bobbed around the table. “The printing itself is basically done,” Marius added. “But we can’t do this without someone to distribute the flyers.”

“Ahhh, now I know why we have a guest tonight,” Jehan said, turning towards Éponine, his eyes crinkling in his signature smile.

Her eyes widened, disbelief writing itself all over her face. “No.” She turned to Marius. “Is _that_ why you need me here?” she hissed.

At least he had the decency to look mildly ashamed of himself. “Th-that’s not the only reason,” he stammered out, his face morphing to a darker shade of red with every word.

“Then what?” Suddenly everything Éponine had found out and seen of Marius in the last twelve hours came crashing down around her. All the reminders that he didn’t even think to speak of her to his friends unless she could do them a favour. That strange, half-absent look in his eye when he spoke to her. Not valuing her as a friend as she did him. She slammed her hand on the table and rose to her feet. Red anger made her face glow with authority. “Am I only good as a messenger to you? As some delivery girl? Is that it?”

The room was silent for a moment, Éponine’s words hanging above everyone’s heads. It was a roar of laughter from none other than Grantaire that dared to break the silence. Between sniggers and tears he managed to get out, “Gorgeous _and_ gutsy? Did you have to sell your soul to Lucifer to get this one, Marius?”

Even though Éponine knew that Grantaire was probably just trying to lighten the mood, she didn’t stop glaring at Marius until she had stared an answer out of him.

“I—” Marius choked out. Coughing, he tried again. “I never said that.”

“But what am I to you, then? A ‘friend’ you can only care to call if I can run you an errant?” Éponine raised her eyebrows and crossed her arms. She still hadn’t reclaimed her seat.

“I – no! No, no,” Marius sputtered. “I’d value your input as much as anyone else’s around this table.”

“Okay,” Enjolras said slowly, also coming to his feet. “Mademoiselle, take your seat and you can _calmly_ tell us what your idea of helping the resistance was.”

At his particularly accentuated “calmly” Éponine threw Enjolras a withering glare, but the word with which he addressed her, calmed her down more than anything else and she grudgingly lowered herself back into her seat along with him. Everyone around the table was looking at their laps, not wanting to catch Éponine’s eye when smoke had nearly poured out of her ears.

“I don’t know if Marius told you, but I work in a military factory,” Éponine said, the venom slowly ebbing from her voice. Everyone except Bahorel, who hadn’t lifted his head since Éponine’s outburst, curiously looked at her when she said that. Éponine glanced at Jehan, who nodded and gave her an encouraging smile. Éponine took a deep breath before she continued, knowing that her next words would change not only her life, but also those of her siblings. “It seems to me like a big problem of yours is that you don’t have the firepower to stand up to Vichy. Well, I would be risking both mine and my brother and sister’s lives if I did this, but I am willing to steal weapons from the factory to help you.”

Her offer made those around the table stare at her in utter amazement. (All except for Bahorel, that is, who was making noises that sounded suspiciously like snores.) Enjolras was the first to regain his composure and pencilled a couple of words onto a notepad. Scraping his chair back and shifting to his feet, Enjolras tore the piece of paper off the notepad.

“Could you pass me my umbrella, please?” he said, reaching over the table with the slip of paper between his fingers. Taking the note from Enjolras, Éponine also came to her feet and handed him his umbrella. “Thank you for returning it so swiftly, mademoiselle,” Enjolras said as he swiped all his papers off the table and shoved them into his case.

Taking the note from Enjolras, she too came to her feet. Enjolras swiped all his papers off the table and shoved them into his case. Everyone’s eyes turned to him as he made to leave the room just as Éponine asked, “And what is this, monsieur?”

His hand on the doorframe, the young revolutionary looked over his shoulder to deliver his answer. “That’s the time and place to the next meeting, mademoiselle. Welcome to Les Amis.”


	5. The Tutor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say thank you to you guys for leaving me kudos! It's really motivating when I know people are enjoying my work!

As soon as Enjolras had left, Éponine could see the rest of the group’s shoulders drop. Grantaire put his feet on the table, Jehan started collecting the coffee mugs and Marius arranged the pages strewn over the table into neat piles. Bahorel collapsed in a heap on the nearest armchair and was snoring before Éponine had time to leave her chair.

Seeing that there was nothing left for her to do, Éponine went to help Jehan wash up. Perplexed and thankful, he said, “You wash, I’ll dry.” Needless to say, the exchange did not stop there. Jehan was far too intrigued by this mysterious girl who was not only willing to support revolutions, but was also able to put Marius in his place with a single look. And yet, she had gazed at him like he was the moon mere moments before.

“So,” he began, “what do you do with your time when you’re not telling people off at revolutionary meetings?”

She froze, her hands still in the soapy lukewarm water. She definitely didn’t want to tell an acquaintance what her life was really like. On the other hand, if they were fighting alongside one another in a revolution, she needed to know she could trust them. No, she wouldn’t tell them. Not for now, anyway. A snore from Bahorel ended her train of thought and she looked at Jehan while starting to scrub away at a mug. Handing it to him to dry, she said, “I work, mostly. That takes up a lot of time.”

Jehan smirked to himself. He knew she probably didn’t want to open up to him, but he just wanted to learn something about her before he saw her again, seeing this as an opportunity to make a new friend. So he pressed her about her job, ignoring the question she had asked him. “You said you work in a military factory. What does that involve?”

“Um,” Éponine said, handing him another mug. “It mostly means that we make bullets and build certain pieces of artillery to use at the front. They don’t want to teach us too much. You know, give us ideas or anything. They know they can’t afford an uprising from us.”

“You mean Vichy can’t afford an uprising?” Jehan asked.

Éponine nodded. “I hate that every single bullet I make is helping Vichy.”

Jehan shrugged. “Well, I’d reckon you joining us is a step in the right direction, wouldn’t you?”

A smile ghosted n Éponine’s lips. “Suppose so.”

“Though it _is_ infuriating that the Germans have taken over everything and made it their own.”

“And I for one am not putting up with it,” Éponine blurted out. “I mean, what would our great-great-grandparents say if they heard their revolution was for nothing? We’re still not free.”

This earned Éponine a chuckle from Jehan. “You sound just like Enjolras,” he said. “No wonder he was so keen to let you join.”

She shrugged. “If he didn’t, that would’ve been his loss. I would have joined a resistance group anyway. He’s lucky I’m willing to help you all,” she said, handing Jehan the last mug and drying her hands on a rag.

Jehan just shook his head. “There aren’t many resistance groups who are still operating, mademoiselle. They’re scared. Neither we nor La Résistance know what the Germans are doing to the people who overstep the line. I mean, at best, you’re a prisoner. So I don’t like to think of ‘at worst’.”

Éponine raised her eyebrows, but didn’t say anything. Letting out a sigh, she made for her bag and tucked the note Enjolras had given her into a side pocket.

 “Leaving so soon?

Éponine turned. It was Grantaire.

She glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s half eleven.”

Grantaire heaved around to look at the clock himself and looked mildly impressed that it was showing the same time Éponine had said. “Well butter my crumpets and call me a biscuit, so it is.”

Éponine rolled her eyes, a faint smile of amusement on her lips. Sitting at the table, rifling through reams of papers, a smirk appeared on Marius’s face at Grantaire’s ludicrous exclamation. Grantaire had already started on his third round of whatever was in that green bottle and she knew that she had to leave if she wanted to avoid what he might have the audacity to say now. _Then again,_ she thought, _he’ll be audacious no matter how sober or drunk he is._

“I must be getting on,” Éponine said apologetically, picking up her bag.

“Allow me to walk you home, mademoiselle,” Jehan offered. “I’d hate to let a charming lady like yourself be alone on the Parisian streets after nightfall. Plus,” he added in a lower voice, “my company here is very likely to entertain me with a ghastly rendition of _J’attendrai_ if I’m not careful. And, to be frank, I’d rather be entertained by revolutionary factory workers.”

Éponine shook her head in amused disbelief. These people were so much more entertaining and interesting than Marius gave them credit for.

The realisation of what he had offered sunk in. What would he say or think or do if he found out that she was as poor as it was possible to be without being homeless? That she and her brother and sister shared a room that served as a kitchen, bathroom and bedroom all in one? Would she perhaps not be allowed to attend more meetings?

“Er… no thank you,” Éponine said quickly. “I’d rather walk alone.”

Jehan’s forehead creased. “Whatever suits you, but it’s not safe after dark in Paris. Especially not for a lady such as yourself.”

 _If only he knew_. She had seen far worse things than this boy who just climbed down from his ivory tower. Maybe he had to see some real world. Even though she only met him, Éponine knew that Jehan would be the last person to judge anyone. And if she spent more time with Les Amis, the best plan would be to trust them, or at least one of them.

She took a deep breath and made for the door. “Oh, alright then. But just to clarify, it’s for your safety. Not mine.”

***

“What are you studying?” Éponine enquired as they walked out of the garden. She wrapped her coat tightly around her.

“Classic Literature,” Jehan replied brightly. “Mostly French, but I am very interested in some English work and you can’t say you know Classic Literature if you don’t know Shakespeare!”

Éponine smiled at his remark. It was so refreshing to talk to someone who was so passionate about something. She couldn’t help but feel a deep ache in her heart knowing that she could not share in his enthusiasm, but wanted to know more nonetheless. “Which play is your favourite?”

Jehan’s face flooded with eagerness as he set about contemplating which Shakespearian play he favoured most. “Well, if I’m honest, the most intriguing one to me is probably _Othello_. I mean… the way it explores the ways in which a character’s flaws are exploited… brilliantly done! I also love _The Merchant of Venice_. It deals with matters of the law and that line of thinking is useful in our work with La Résistance. Probably why Enjolras always sees the loopholes in our plans.”

“He’s studying Law?”

Jehan nodded. “Part-time and through a correspondence course, but yeah. Do you have a favourite play?”

Éponine nearly froze in her tracks. Would she tell him? No. Not now. Maybe? They would find out sooner or later. Was sooner better than later? “Er…” she said in an attempt to fill the silence. She scrambled for words as she racked her brain for any play she could recall. “My English is a little rusty, but I rather like _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_.”

“Ah, yes! A good comedy,” Jehan commented. “But, on to French literature, I have yet to meet someone who likes Alexandre Dumas’ work more than I do. _The Count of Monte Cristo, The Three Musketeers,_ the _Valois_ romances… You name it, I’ve read it!”

“He sounds like a marvellous author,” Éponine mused.

“He truly is. Have you read any of his works?”

Éponine shook her head. This was a highly dangerous topic. He was only about three questions away from learning what she hoped Les Amis would never have to know. “Er, no. I’m not much of a literature person.”

Jehan looked surprised. “Oh, for someone who is so well-spoken, I’d have thought you read more widely. Oh well. Each to their own, I suppose. How do you spend your time, then?”

“As I said before, work takes up a lot of time. Otherwise I’m making sure that Azelma and Gavroche are doing well. Or at least as well as possible.”

“How so?”

Éponine felt her cheeks flushing. “Well, you’ll probably see when I get home.”

Something flickered in Jehan’s eyes. The beginnings of pity, perhaps? But it was too dark for Éponine to be sure. As stubborn and proud as she was, she knew that if that was the case, she would not accept his pity. She would, however, earn the trust of Les Amis and thereby try and make life better for her and her siblings. If not with more money in their pockets, at least with people she trusted governing their country.

The pair of them walked in silence for a while. Éponine observed Jehan as he merrily strolled through Paris, taking every opportunity to tap his foot in a puddle and almost always staring at the sky littered with stars. He wore an odd, satisfied smile on his boyish face.

Finally, Jehan broke the silence. “Can you read, mademoiselle?”

Éponine felt her feet anchor themselves to the cobbled Parisian street and her heart sink into her shoes. Jehan still walked a couple steps before he realised she was no longer by his side. When he turned around to look at her, he had a concerned look on his face. Éponine was clearly perturbed by his deduction, which he now assumed to be correct judging by her reaction.

Jehan walked back to Éponine and put his hands on her arms. Éponine’s eyes were on her feet. She could not bring herself look at him.

“Mademoiselle,” Jehan said gently. “If I may ask, how old are you?”

Completely caught off guard by the peculiar question, Éponine lifted gaze. “What?”

“I had a friend who learned to read when he was eighteen. I taught him, actually. He wanted to study but couldn’t write the entrance exams so I taught him to read and write. I admit that he’s become more of a bookworm than me which is saying something!”

Éponine’s brow creased. “And has he read all those books you just spoke of?”

Jehan nodded. “He has. Recommended a couple of them to me, in fact.”

“That’s impressive.”

Jehan smiled. “Well I’m sure he’d appreciate your compliment. But he’s told me that he sees learning to read as an opportunity that his childhood never offered, rather than an accomplishment.”

Éponine nodded, thinking of what she was supposed say next. Finally she settled on, “I am eighteen, if you still wanted to know.”

“And so history repeats itself!” Jehan exclaimed and clapped his hands together. He turned around and started walking again, hands in his pockets and eyes directed towards the star-strewn heavens.

A frown formed between Éponine’s eyebrows. She scurried after Jehan to catch up with his long strides. “I’m sorry, monsieur, but what do you mean by ‘history repeats itself’?”

A small chuckle accompanied the dimpled smile on his face. “You have much to learn, mademoiselle. _The Three Musketeers_ is a good place to start, I should think.”

Wonder shone in Éponine’s eyes and her mouth hung open. “You mean you’ll teach me to read?”

“And write!” Jehan added with a wink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do so love writing Éponine and Jehan's friendship! I'm definitely planning on writing more interaction between her and Enjolras soon, but I also want her friendship with various members Les Amis to come through and those chapters will be coming soon! Please let me know what you think so far!


	6. The New Confidant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for all the kudos you've left me so far! Truly appreciate every single one! Sorry this chapter took a little long to come... I've had it ready for a while but my forgetfulness and my being ill for a while weren't the best help. So, without further ado, hope you enjoy the chapter!

As the days dragged on, fragments of news from the war reached France. It was a common sight to see people holding hankies with them as they went to retrieve the morning newspaper. More and more people dressed in black. More and more people who once wore the yellow star vanished. More and more children were extending cupped hands on the streets to passers-by.

All of these images floated around Éponine’s head as she drifted to sleep after a full day’s work at the factory. She had told Azelma all about her plans to help the resistance and her sister, eager as always, immediately offered to help her steal the weaponry. Éponine firmly turned down her offer, but still sometimes caught Azelma sneaking gunpowder into her boots.

Some days, if Éponine had had particularly good haul in terms of bullets or bits of artillery equipment, she would stop by a house or apartment of Les Amis. But she still didn’t feel as though she was completely a part of the group. All the others had a history with each other and Éponine felt almost alien among them. They were all very welcoming, especially Grantaire and Jehan, but Éponine still felt like she had to prove her worth to them. She was still endlessly grateful to Jehan for wanting to teach her to read and write and had lessons with him twice a week.

That Friday, Éponine dropped by at Enjolras’s place for a lesson with Jehan. He had suggested that they meet each other at different places to avoid the impression that they were holding frequent meetings and she had agreed. As she walked the now-familiar route to the blond revolutionary’s house, she noticed that Autumn was slowly petering out and being replaced by Winter’s icy breath. Éponine trembled at the thought that she, Azelma and Gavroche had to survive another winter this year. But they would make it. They always did.

She knocked lightly on the door and rocked back and forth on her feet as she waited for someone to answer. Enjolras opened the door promptly, looking mildly surprised to see Éponine on his doorstep. “ _Bonjour_. Can I help you, mademoiselle?”

“Er – Jehan said for me to meet him here. He’s helping me with something.” She still had not told the rest of the Amis of her lessons and she intended to avoid it as long as she could.

Enjolras glanced at his watch. “He’s not due for another hour or so, but you’re welcome to wait for him inside, if you want to?” He stood out of the doorway to let Éponine in.

“Yes, please.” She smiled as she passed Enjolras and shrugged off her coat.

Locking the door and turning around in one movement, he made his way to the kitchen where all of his papers were strewn about as usual. Éponine followed him and automatically turned the kettle on.

“Do you want some coffee?” she asked Enjolras, kneeling to reach the ration coffee filters in the cupboard under the sink.

“That would be very helpful, thank you,” he answered, rubbing his eyes and running his fingers through his hair.

“Long day?” Éponine asked as she measured out the coffee.

Enjolras let out a long sigh. “Long day. Long week. Long month. Long year. Honestly, if this war could be over, I would greatly appreciate it.”

“If only.”

“And every day I see more Jews being dragged to God knows where and there’s nothing I can do. It just eats me up from the inside.”

Éponine nodded, feeling her eyes burn. “I wish there was something more we could do.”

Enjolras looked up at her. A slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. She just wanted to help her country. Why hadn’t Marius brought her to Les Amis sooner? She was exactly the sort of person that they needed. As he had said many times before, numbers equalled power. And she had the advantage of being little-known, which could get more people on their side.

Knowing she was just feeling useless now, he said, “Well, if you want, I could take care of the coffee and you can have a look at something La Résistance asked me to work on.”

Éponine hesitated. She hadn’t told anyone except Jehan that she couldn’t read and he had promised her that he would respect her decision and not tell them either. Although her skills were improving quickly, she sometimes struggled when Jehan wasn’t there to assist her. Maybe it _was_ time that more people knew the truth. After all, these were the people that would help her win her country back. And Enjolras especially would not embarrass her if he knew. She had to learn to trust them at some point. _Why not now?_ she reasoned with herself.

“I – er… I’m not the best at reading, but I am learning,” she mumbled, taking the ream of paper from Enjolras’s outstretched hand.

“If you’ve got any trouble, I’m right here,” he said matter-of-factly, completely unfazed by Éponine’s limited reading ability.

“ _Merci_ , monsieur.”

Enjolras nodded and turned back to the kettle. Settling into one of the kitchen chairs, Éponine trained her eyes on the first line of the plan. It was a date. Relief flooded her face, the serious creases on her brow disappearing. _15 April 1942._ The second line was a place. She recognised the name more than read it. _Arras._ It was the third line that troubled her. _Le Quartier Général Allemand._ German headquarters.

She turned to Enjolras, her eyes stretched open. “You’re planning on attacking a German hub next year?”

Enjolras, who had still been busy with the coffee, turned around with an unreadable look written on his face. “So you _can_ read.”

Éponine scoffed in frustration. “That’s not the _point!”_ She came to her feet, the paper still in her hand as she waved it at Enjolras. “La Résistance thinks you’re ready to pull this off?”

“Well, no,” Enjolras admitted. “Not yet, anyway. As you’ve heard, we need the numbers. We are collecting them, partially with your help, and the weapons you and La Résistance give us will be of great use.”

Éponine’s mouth fell open. _What the hell had she gotten herself into?_ She had not thought that they would have to resort to violence this soon. If they did, there was no way that she would not be part of it, but what would happen to Gavroche and Azelma if she was injured? Or worse?

She was about to ask Enjolras more questions, but a sudden thump somewhere beneath her feet made her stop short. She frowned at the floorboards, but dismissed it as a figment of her imagination. That is, until she looked back up and saw how Enjolras’s face had visibly paled to a milky white, his eyes glued to the floor. “Monsieur?”

Enjolras looked up. And then he gulped. Éponine had never seen him gulp. What was going on?

Before he could stop her, Éponine dashed out of the kitchen and to the door in the hall. She tried the doorknob, which clicked open without protest, and flew down the stairs in search of the source of the sound beneath the kitchen.

The basement was dark, but the light that trickled in from the hall was enough for her to see the little white switch hanging from the ceiling. As she pulled it, she heard Enjolras reach the top of the stairs behind her. _“Feuilly–”_ he started to yell, but it was too late.

For as light flooded the room, it illuminated a trembling figure crouched on the floor with his hands flung over his head.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh, cliffhanger ending mwhaha! I'll have the next chapter up shortly ;)


	7. The Blossoms of Friendship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Thank you so much for your patience for the update - I was busy with exams, then I was on holiday and then I became ill so a lot has been going on. Thanks for all the kudos you've left me in my absence! I really appreciate each one! I have a couple of the upcoming chapters already typed up so they'll be up as soon as they've been beta-read :)
> 
> This is one of my favourite chapters so far so I hope you guys enjoy it! xx

 

 “You’re hiding a _Jew?”_

Éponine slowly turned to face Enjolras, his pallor still a ghostly shade of white. She had heard of people hiding Jews, but it always resulted in both the stowaway and their keeper being deported to the rumoured labour camps somewhere in Eastern Europe.

Slowly, colour started ebbing back into Enjolras’ cheeks. Enjolras shook his head. “No.”

Éponine’s frown deepened. She looked back at the cowering figure. He was a pitiful sight, stealing glimpses of her through the gaps in his fingers as he shielded his face with his hands. Mind whirring, she looked back at Enjolras.

“Alright, monsieur. Let me get this straight. You’re white as a sheet. This man here is scared out of his wits. Apparently my assumption that this has something to do with the Germans is wrong. Care to explain that?”

Enjolras’ eyes darted from Feuilly to Éponine and back again. Lines were scribbled all over his face. He heaved a deep sigh before he answered in the negative again.

Finally getting over her initial shock, frustration now coursed through Éponine, boiling like water in a kettle. “What in the name of God is going on? Am I going to have to force the answer out of you, monsieur?”

Enjolras’ knees cracked as he bent to sit down on the top stair. Some colour had returned to his face, but his breaths were still shaky. “Force is quite unnecessary, mademoiselle. A polite question would suffice.”

Éponine threw her hands into the air with a huff, dark eyes ablaze with indignation. “Polite questions! As if they’ll get me anywhere!”

“Mademoiselle, please calm down. You’re frightening him,” Enjolras said in the smallest voice she had ever heard him use.

“Oh, I’m frightening _him?_ Ha! He’s not the only one who’s scared, monsieur. No, no.” Éponine choked on a few hysterical giggles that bubbled up her windpipe. She felt her legs go numb and sank onto the nearest step, head in her hands.

Behind her, she could hear Enjolras say, “It’s okay, Feuilly. She’s not going to tell anyone.”

Éponine whipped around to throw Enjolras a withering glance. “You’re quick to assume, monsieur.”

He flinched, but fixed her with a steady gaze. “I know revolutionaries when I see them, mademoiselle.”

* * *

 

After most of Éponine’s nerves calmed down, Enjolras had left to make them ration coffee. Éponine stayed glued to her seat on the stairs, legs drawn up and resting her head on her knees. She had no idea where to start a conversation with Feuilly and desperately tried to organise her thoughts as she waited for Enjolras to return.

She was sceptical of Feuilly; there was no sugar-coating that. Learning of the fate of the Poles was one thing. Learning that her new-found friends were hiding one of those very Poles? Shock was putting it mildly.

She heard Feuilly moving a couple feet away, but refused to look at him until she knew what to say. It sounded as though he was moving around boxes or crates or something.

When Enjolras appeared in the doorway to the basement, steaming mugs of coffee on a tray, Éponine finally slunk down the rest of the stairs. She avoided Feuilly's eye as she took a seat on an upturned crate.

Once Enjolras had handed them all a mug and taken a seat himself, he started explaining everything. For the best part of an hour, he told Éponine of the Nazis hunt for Poles, the coupons Feuilly had forged for them and the studies Feuilly still managed to do despite not attending university any longer.

Éponine sat in silence, memorising all there was to know about Feuilly. He was a literature student, just like Jehan. He used to make fans part-time to pay the rent. He had joined Les Amis shortly after it was formed.

Throughout it all, Feuilly never made a peep. He never even made eye contact with Éponine or Enjolras. The only thing that distinguished him from a statue was the small sips he took from his mug at irregular intervals.

When Enjolras started explain the reasons why they decided to hide him there in particular, Éponine stole a glance at the Polish man. Despite his youth, lines webbed his face and dark circles ringed his eyes. Sideburns and a beard generously covered his cheeks and chin. His hair was a nest of unruly curls. He was a sight for sore eyes if she ever saw one.

But despite his frightful appearance, it was the look of utter misery on his face that softened Éponine’s attitude towards him. This basement must have felt like a prison to him. She, at least, knew a little of how that felt. The factory she worked in never let in any sliver of the outside world. It became more of a prison than anything else while she was there. All she could think of then was being outside and feeling the wind against her skin.

Suddenly, she realised that it was quiet. She glanced over to look at Enjolras and saw that he was looking at her with expectant eyes.

She slowly turned back to Feuilly and asked, “What do you miss most about being outside?”

Her question clearly took the dishevelled man aback, confusion flashing through his eyes and the creases on his face intensifying. “Mademoiselle?”

Éponine sat back, an almost dream-like look on her face. “I think I would miss the sun most of all. The sun upon my shoulders on a crisp autumn morning – there’s nothing quite like it, don’t you agree?”

An eager smile crept over Feuilly’s face. “I suppose not, mademoiselle.”

“Oh, please, you may call me Éponine. We’ve shared enough secrets to warrant that.” She extended her hand towards Feuilly, who eagerly shook it, hungry for mundane human interaction.

“In that case, Feuilly’s the name. Hide-and-seek is currently the game,” he said cheerfully, his face alight with a smile. Éponine grinned and proceeded to ask him about what it was like to live underground.

Enjolras watched them as an inquisitive look settled on his face. Éponine had known Feuilly for less than an hour and was already at ease with talking to him. As bits and pieces of their conversation floated past him, Enjolras couldn’t help but feeling a bit of déjà vu at their exchange. It took him a while to figure out why.

From the corner of her eye, Éponine could see the blond man thinking deeply, his brows furrowed. However, she quickly returned her full attention back to Feuilly who was telling her that his friend had taught him to read and write.

“Might that friend be monsieur Jehan Prouvaire?” Éponine asked, a grin curling on her lips.

Feuilly’s whole face lit up at the enquiry. “Indeed! He taught me everything I know. I am much indebted to that fellow.”

“Then it might interest you to know that he is now helping me learn to do the same.”

A wide smile stretched into Feuilly’s cheeks. “That bastard! Outsourcing his tutoring skills that I helped him perfect,” Feuilly scoffed jokingly.

“Well, I hope they won’t be wasted on me,” Éponine said, a laugh colouring her tone.

Suddenly, a knocking upstairs silenced them all. Enjolras froze, shoulders taut. Éponine and Feuilly flinched at the ceiling. Rising onto shaky legs, Enjolras gestured that only he was going back upstairs. Once he had switched off the light and closed the cellar door behind him, he tried to approach the front door with as much nonchalance as he could muster, bracing himself for the worst.

But when he opened the door, it was only Jehan who was standing there, his trademark grin plastered on his face.

“Damn you, Jehan,” Enjolras said, a relieved laugh lacing his voice. He stepped aside to let Jehan pass him into the house.

Jehan’s eyebrows lifted in question as he made to hang his coat and scarf on the stand by the door. “Did I miss something?”

“What haven’t you missed?” Enjolras said, leading his friend to the basement door. “Éponine met Feuilly today.”

Now Jehan’s eyebrows nearly shot into his hairline. “Come again?”

“You heard me.” Enjolras opened the door to the basement and pulled the light switch, revealing Éponine and Feuilly in the exact place he left them.

Feuilly’s face broke into a grin when he saw Jehan. “Ah, speak of the devil! I hear you’ve been tutoring Éponine just like you tutored me! Isn’t she delightful company?”

Éponine beamed as she looked up at Jehan and Enjolras who were still standing at the top of the stairs.

“Yeah, we’ve met,” Jehan said amiably. “I’d love to join your delightful company, though. Today’s lecture has actually managed to cook my brain, so taking my mind off it for a while would be marvellous.”

“We’ll do our best!” Éponine grinned, waving him closer.

Jehan eagerly skipped down the stairs. Enjolras regarded them for a moment before turning away to go and work some more on the plans La Résistance had sent him, the gears in his mind trying to place the déjà vu he had experienced earlier. And then it clicked: their easy exchange and his being left to watch from the side lines acutely reminded him of Éponine’s first meeting with Les Amis. But where she was the stranger last time, it was his turn to be the outsider now. He shrugged to himself, pleased at how quickly she had become part of the group. He truly believed that resistance was the one place where more really was the merrier.

He felt a strange urge to go to the basement and join the conversation himself. After all, he had spent ample time with Jehan and Feuilly in the past, so he wouldn’t have any trouble chatting to them. Plus, Éponine had showed an affable side of her that she rarely displayed. They would be working together later on anyway, so getting to know each other better might actually be a good idea.

_So why the hell not?_ Enjolras thought, turning back and heading to the basement.

* * *

 

Night had fallen when Combeferre walked into his and Enjolras’ house to be met with stony silence. He frowned. Enjolras ought to be home by now and Jehan was supposed to join them for dinner. Then his heart dropped. Feuilly.

He rushed down the hallway, heart hammering. But when he pushed the door to the cellar open, he only found a strange assembly of people, sitting on upturned crates and chatting in low voices. Feuilly was there, as was his roommate and Jehan. But it was the girl’s presence he couldn’t figure out. What was her name again? Ermine? Emmeline? No, the first two letters had a more peculiar intonation. Endoline?

Still trying to place her name, he padded down the stairs to be met with a chorus of greetings when Enjolras spotted him. Combeferre frowned at the grin gracing the blond revolutionary’s face. When last had he seen that?

“ _Bonsoir,_ Combeferre,” Enjolras said. Even his voice was more cheerful than it had been in months. What was going on with his friend?

“ _Bonsoir_ ,” Combeferre replied affably and greeted the rest with a wave of his hand. “What are we doing down here?”

“This mademoiselle here decided that I’d had too little excitement these past few weeks, so she decided to pay me a surprise visit,” Feuilly informed his friend.

“And there’s no one quite as curious or crazy as Éponine to make that happen,” Jehan said with a smirk, earning him a light punch in the shoulder from Éponine.

_Éponine. Of course. How could he have forgotten?_

“You met Éponine the other night, didn’t you, ’Ferre?” Enjolras asked.

Combeferre nodded and smiled warmly at Éponine. “That’s right, I did. How have you been, mademoiselle?”

“Cold,” Éponine said candidly, eliciting a couple of chuckles from the group. “And trying not to blow factories up. But otherwise, I’m fit as a fiddle and ready to help wherever I can.”

“That’s the spirit, mademoiselle,” Combeferre said with a grin.

“How have _you_ been, monsieur?” Éponine asked politely.

“Much the same,” Combeferre said, drawing up another crate and sitting with the group. “Also trying not to blow things up. But in my case its members of Vichy’s tempers that need tending to.”

“Don’t we know it?” Feuilly said with a wry laugh.

Jehan patted Feuilly’s shoulder. “The war will be over _before_ we know it.”

“And on that note, I think I’d best have a look at those plans for La Résistance again,” said Enjolras, hitting his knees and coming to his feet. “Anyone care to join me?”

“I’ll come,” Éponine immediately offered as she rose to join him.

Enjolras nodded curtly and made his way up the stairs. After a quick goodbye, Éponine followed in his wake, leaving Combeferre, Jehan and Feuilly with furrowed brows and puzzled eyes sitting in a circle in the basement.

Jehan was the first to break the silence. “This is a… an _interesting_ development.”

“Indeed,” Feuilly breathed.

“Well, I suppose we ought to let everything run its own course,” Combeferre remarked.

“Even this? Whatever it is?” Feuilly asked.

Combeferre looked over at Feuilly and gave a slight nod.

“Whatever it is,” Jehan said, nodding thoughtfully. “Because whatever this turns out to be, we all know that life’s most beautiful pearls are found in the stormiest of seas.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah friends... always there to help steer the boat in the right direction (even on stormy seas lol)
> 
> Please let me know what you guys think!
> 
> There's lots of sibling interaction & Les Amis bromance coming up in the next chapters so let me know if you guys want to see anything in particular and I'll see what I can do :)


	8. The Family Bond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! Thank you for being so patient with my updates & being so kind as to leave me kudos :))))) every time I get an email, it really makes my day! Please let me know what you guys think so far xx

When Éponine woke up, her bones ached as though the cold had drained the very marrow from them. She gave a shaky sigh. It wasn’t November yet and the cold was already intolerable. She blew over her fingers to warm them up, but even her breath seemed to be robbed of its warmth as soon as it left her mouth.

Bones creaking and muscles screaming, she dragged herself to her feet. In the early sunlight, she could make out Azelma and Gavroche sprawled on the straw mattress across the room from her.

As she got closer, she saw that Azelma’s acne still had not cleared up despite the salve she had acquired for her on the black market. Her hands had also become covered by eczema, but that was probably just because of the cold. The Thénardier sisters had never been the luckiest when it came to skin.

Glancing over at her brother, Éponine could not help but smile. Even in sleep, he had that mischievous grin on his lips.

After looking at her siblings for a moment longer, she gently shook Azelma awake. Her sister groaned and pulled the threadbare blanket over her head. “’Ponine,” she moaned. “It’s not time for work yet.”

“Perhaps not,” Éponine admitted. “But laziness does not become you. I’ll go get us some bread. Please will you wake Gavroche up and help him get dressed?”

Azelma gave an unintelligible moan.

“I’ll take that as a yes, lazy bones,” Éponine said, yanking the blanket off of her sister who shrieked at the cold that pierced her skin.

“That’s rude!”

“Welcome to the real world, ’Zel.”

* * *

 

“So, when am I allowed to meet these gentlefolk you’re stealing our precious work for?” Azelma asked Éponine. She had a mouthful of bread, which she had managed to salvage from the baker’s bins the night before.

“Don’t speak with food in your mouth,” Éponine chided. “We hardly look civilized as it is.”

“Can I have more bread?” Gavroche moaned, picking at the crumbs on the table.

Éponine felt her heart fracture a little at his request. She gave him a sympathetic smile. “Not now. But soon, I promise.”

He nodded.

“Here,” Azelma said, turning to her brother. “You can have the rest of mine; I’m not really hungry anyway. Go on, eat up.”

“Yes! Thanks, sis.”

A smile split open on Gavroche’s face as he ate the heel of bread nibble by nibble. Azelma smiled at the look on her brother’s face as his stomach filled up a little more before she turned back to her sister. “You still haven’t answered my question, Ép.”

Éponine sighed. “I know. It’s ’cause I don’t know the answer.”

“Will you know it soon?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then you’d best make it sound horrible there. Otherwise I’m going over there myself.”

“’Zel,” Éponine said, “don’t you dare.”

Azelma shrugged. “I want to know who I’m risking my life for.”

“You _know_ who you’re risking your life for,” Éponine said, throwing a pointed look in their brother’s direction.

“Yes, yes, I know that. But who else? It’s not him who’s using the gunpowder.”

“’Zelma!” Éponine hissed, but it was too late.

“What’s this about gunpowder?” Gavroche asked, licking around his lips for spare crumbs.

Éponine didn’t like hiding anything from Gavroche: he needed to know as much as she did if he stood a chance to survive those hours she could not care for him. She had told him that she attended meetings. She had promised him that they would have France back one day. But one thing she had omitted was that she and Azelma were stealing from the factory.

Azelma could see Éponine battling with her conscience across the table, the question she was asking herself written in her eyes: _Should I tell him or not?_ A moment later Éponine arranged her face in its usual self-assured fashion and turned to their brother. Azelma leaned back, arms folded over her chest, a smirk twitching at her mouth corners.

“Gav,” Éponine said. “You know those meetings I’ve been attending?”

Gavroche nodded, picking crumbs off the palm of his hand. Both Éponine and Azelma flinched at the sight. “Yeah,” he said, shaking his hands when he was sure he had eaten everything. “Hey, about those, you said you’ll take me to them when I’m older. Well, I’m older now than when you said so, aren’t I? So please, please, _please_ can I go?”

Éponine fixed him with a stern gaze. “You know what I meant.”

Gavroche shrugged. “’Twas worth a shot.”

“Anyway,” Azelma cut in, “you were saying?”

Éponine nodded. “Yes. Those people who I’ve been visiting?”

“Hmm-mm?” Gavroche said, fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve. He had lost all interest in the conversation by now.

“Hey!” Azelma exclaimed, snapping her fingers by Gavroche’s nose and making him jump. “’Ponine is trying to tell you something important, you meatball.”

“Alright, alright!” Gavroche said, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, okay?”

Éponine rolled her eyes. _“Anyway,_ what I was saying is that they’re trying to get rid of the Germans. And ’Zel and I are helping them arm themselves to do that.”

For the first time Éponine could remember, Gavroche had no response ready. He just stared at her with eyes the size of saucers.

“Er… you okay there?” Azelma asked, nudging Gavroche on his shoulder.

Brushing her hand away, Gavroche finally found words. “D’you mean you’re a relovutionary?”

Éponine bit her lip to keep from laughing at Gavroche’s butchering of “revolutionary”. Azelma on the other hand, nearly fell out of her chair laughing, clutching at her sides. Gavroche’s cheeks flamed as he stood up to give Azelma a jab in the ribs with his fist. Laughter never ceasing, she just returned the punch to his stomach.

“Hey!” Éponine exclaimed, effectively bringing her siblings’ attention back to her. “Can we please leave fighting for the real war?”

Gavroche rolled his eyes and Azelma shoved him away, a smirk still playing on her lips.

“But are you a what’s-its-name, then?” Gavroche inquired, not daring to take matters of grammar into his own hands again.

He watched Éponine nod as he returned to his seat. “Yes, but don’t go throwing that word around; it’ll land us in prison faster than you can say your name.”

“Gavroche, Gavroche, Gavroche,” the boy kept saying over and over.

Azelma frowned at him. “What the hell has gotten into you, little man?”

He gave her an incredulous look. “I’m seeing how fast I can say my name,” he explained before going back to repeating his name at increasing intervals.

Both sisters watched their brother with raised brows before Éponine shook her head and gestured to Azelma to follow her to the basin in the corner.

“What’s wrong?” Azelma asked when they were standing by the basin, rust-tinged water filling it up.

“Just watch him when I can’t.”

Éponine sounded so solemn, Azelma immediately nodded and pressed her lips together.

“And when you can’t, we need someone else to keep an eye on him.”

Azelma furrowed her brow. “Who?”

“Well, anyone would do, quite frankly,” Éponine sighed, turning off the tap. Gavroche was still chanting his name at the table.

“Musichetta, perhaps? She does the night shift at the factory, so we can ask her to watch him during our shifts.”

Éponine nodded thoughtfully and started scrubbing the wooden plate they had used for their bread. “I wish I could leave him with Les Amis, but I’m just worried they’ll try and recruit him or something.”

Azelma’s signature smirk appeared on her face. “You worry about strange things.”

“He’s too young to know about all the things they talk about.”

“’Ponine, listen,” Azelma said in a low voice, taking her sister by the arms and turning her to look her in the eye. “You can try and protect him from this as much as you like. But the truth is, he already knows. What do think people talk about on the streets? War doesn’t have space for children. You and I know that better than anyone. We had to grow up quickly. And as hard as it is to hear, he’ll have to do it, too.”

“But –”

“No, listen to me. Protect him all you want, but not from the war. Protect him against things he really needs protecting from.”

A lump formed in Éponine’s throat as she realised what Azelma meant. “Our parents?” she croaked.

Azelma closed her eyes and bowed her head. “Yeah.”

“Hey, what’s going on over there?”

Éponine and Azelma turned to see Gavroche heading their way, his trademark grin plastered on his face. The sisters exchanged a look before Éponine kneeled to look Gavroche in the eye as he stopped by them.

“Gav, I’ve changed my mind.”

His eyes widened and his grin twisted. “Does this mean what I think this means?”

Éponine nodded, a hint of a smile on her lips at his excitement. “I’ll take you two to meet them when we have our day off next week.”


End file.
